


climb out, find another view (now i've found you)

by wrenstars



Series: we've gotta outgrow and feel a little heart hope [2]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: F/F, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:01:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26580307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrenstars/pseuds/wrenstars
Summary: with spring comes graduation, and with graduation comes opportunities.
Relationships: Sakura Futaba/Yoshizawa Sumire | Yoshizawa Kasumi
Series: we've gotta outgrow and feel a little heart hope [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1873903
Comments: 2
Kudos: 45





	climb out, find another view (now i've found you)

Futaba had expected graduation day to feel… momentous. A little unreal, like the final arc in an anime, to the point that everything is dramatic and over-the-top and saturated in symbolism. She’d half-expected to wake to birds chirping outside her window and sunlight resting on her face, everything naturally falling into place. The hero has gone through a lot to get to this point, after all, and they deserve a bit of special treatment. _She_ deserves special treatment, and a hell of a lot of it. 

Instead, she wakes to the unforgiving buzz of her phone’s alarm clock. 

Futaba groans and blindly gropes around for her phone. She misses it the first three times, so her alarm blares for exactly forty-six seconds longer than it should. She then spends another solid minute with her head buried in her pillow, trying to figure out why her alarm’s usual song has been replaced with her favourite Featherman victory theme, before she remembers that she’d changed it last night in her anticipation for graduation day. 

And _that’s_ how she remembers it’s graduation day—with her hair all over the place, her covers half-on her body and half-off, one of her arms hanging awkwardly over the edge of her bed and her one-o’clock-bedtime seeping exhaustion and heaviness deep into her bones. It’s a clear, disappointing contrast to the bound-out-of-bed, all-the-world’s-a-stage image she’s been fed since she was five.

Ugh. Real life is so disappointing. 

If only she had a reset button for it. 

Futaba allows herself about five more minutes to both process her disappointment with life and bone-dead exhaustion (okay, so _maybe_ Sumire has a point about boosting her iron intake, and _maybe_ she knows that, too, but it’s also the first thing in the morning and she doesn’t yet have the mental capacity to think much about it) before she kicks off the covers and starts getting ready for the day. 

She dresses in a half-stupor, and half-stumbles out of the door. Her phone buzzes on her way to LeBlanc—Futaba grumbles, only for her heart to skip a beat when she notices it’s from Sumire. 

**SUMIRE:** good morning, futaba!!  


**SUMIRE:** happy graduation day!  
**SUMIRE:** i can’t wait to see you! (* >ω<)

The message makes Futaba smile a _little_ , and her chest feels warm and mushy as she sends Sumire a reply. But she’s still mad, because nothing is real and everything and everyone she’s trusted has lied to her. The next time a game tries to feed her a too-good-to-be-true celebration she’s going to chuck the controller through the screen. 

She’s only aware that she’s made it to Leblanc by the chime of the overhead bells and the familiar scent of coffee and curry. Futaba stows her phone away and finds Sojiro behind the counter, as usual (she may as well be a customer from how ordinary this is—she’ll at least get better service from Sojiro). What’s _slightly_ unusual is that Ren is seated opposite him, up and alert and not sleeping in as he’s prone to do (though, judging from the empty coffee cup besides his current half-filled on, he’s required a _lot_ of encouragement to unlock that trophy). 

“Mornin’,” he says mid-yawn, as Futaba slides into the spot next to him. He downs another shot of coffee in one big gulp. 

Futaba grins. “Too used to late college mornings, are we? Are you regretting firing Morgana as your bedtime-setter?” 

“Hey,” he protests, “I’m an adult now. I don’t need my cat to tell me when to sleep.”

“ _Suuuuuuure_ ,” Futaba drawls, and promptly punctuates her performance with a long-lasting, ear-splitting yawn. Ren raises a single eyebrow.

“Sorry, but what was that about _my_ sleep schedule?” he asks lightly.

“Alright, you two, that’s enough,” Sojiro grumbles, just as Futaba sends her best death glare at Ren. He slides a steaming bowl of curry in front of her. “Eat up. Today’s a big day, after all.”

Futaba shrugs. “Eh, it’s not _that_ big a deal, but it _is_ a stage clear. Achievement. Mission complete. Whatever. It’s one of the three, anyway, at least until college.” She pulls her curry closer and digs in. 

Sojiro sighs. “You could stand to sound a little more excited,” he says, “You don’t graduate every day.” He pulls out a cigarette and pauses, letting it dangle between his fingers, before he closes his eyes in resignation and stows it away. 

“It’s basically another assembly, Sojiro,” Futaba says through a mouthful of meat and sauce and rice, as she and Ren high-five under the counter (she barely even notices the way Sojiro glares at her for that offence—Sojiro hadn’t even pulled the lighter out! They keep making progress!). 

“She’s right, Boss,” Ren says nonchalantly, downing the last of his coffee like his hand had always been resting there. “Graduation is moving and meaningful and all, but the real fun happens _after_ the ceremony. Ann, Ryuji, Yusuke and I had a blast at Dome Town. The coffee I had there wasn’t very enjoyable, though.” He looks mournfully at the dregs left in his cup before he turns to Futaba. “You have anything planned?”

Futaba grins, clapping her hands together. “Sure do! Sumi and I are going out to get yakisoba together, and maybe stop at an arcade after. We haven’t properly planned it all yet, but it’ll be fun either way! And I _will_ be back in time for our family sushi celebration, I _promise_!”

She says the last part in response to the sudden, piercing look she can _feel_ radiating from Sojiro. Sure enough, when she turns to look at him, he’s shaking his head.

“You’d better,” Sojiro warns. “That place is pricey, and I made reservations a month ago.”

He sounds as threatening as a first-level boss. Futaba can’t help but snicker. “Understood, Captain Sojiro!” she chirps, sending him a mock salute. 

Sojiro sends her a withering glare and returns to washing the dishes, but not before Futaba catches the slight, fond smile on his face. Softie. He’ll realise it one day, she’s sure. Futaba shovels the last mouthfuls of curry into her mouth and leaps to the ground, cheeks still bulging. “Well, it’s time to make like a tree! I can’t keep Sumi waiting.” 

Ren laughs. “I should think not—that’s an unthinkable offence for sure.” He leans over and ruffles her hair. “See you soon then,” he says, ignoring Futaba’s indignant squawk, “Have fun!”

“ _God_. I am a soon-to-be high school graduate _and_ a college student in the making,” Futaba says, scowling and swatting Ren’s hand away. “Stop playing with my hair!”

“It’s what big brothers do,” Ren says, winking. “You’ll never be too old for it.”

“I hate you so much.” 

“Love you too.”

Futaba rolls her eyes, gives him the final, elegant parting grace of a tongue poked out, and leaves.

The journey to school follows the same pattern as the morning, in regards to everything being exactly the same. The train is still as crowded, the noise and number of people requiring Futaba to pull on her headphones to drown it all out, and Shibuya Station as bustling as ever when she arrives.

Despite the crowd, it doesn’t take Futaba long to locate Sumire—she’s standing in the same corner she had been on their first day of school. Futaba smiles, feels her heart skip a beat, and pulls her headphones down as she makes her way over.

“Hey,” she says, stopping in front of Sumire.

Sumire pockets her phone and beams. “Hey yourself.” 

She offers her hand. Futaba wishes she was put together enough to say that she doesn’t feel like spontaneously combusting when she puts her hand in Sumire’s own, but she isn’t. Her heart beats erratically in her chest as she allows herself to be pulled towards the connecting train, her eyes on Sumire’s head the entire time. 

They don’t let go until they reach the school. 

* * *

It’s a testament to how terrible Shujin’s graduation ceremony is that sitting next to _Sumire_ does nothing to make it any more bearable. 

Even two years on from the scandals and involvement of the Phantom Thieves, Shujin is still scrambling to clean its image (pitiful, really, since distrust and doubt is now so thoroughly written into the school’s code)—and ensuring that its graduation ceremonies are as traditional and mind-numbing as possible is apparently part of this effort. Every teacher’s outfit is crisp, spotless; the line of third years that had filed into the gymnasium tidy and orderly; the given speeches dull and generic. 

(Futaba yawns through each one. They’re basically ASMRs to fall asleep to—even when she’s particularly awake and hyperfocused, she’s sure listening to even one speech would send her straight to sleep.)

Sumire is the only reason Futaba doesn’t doze off in her chair: they pull faces at each other, snort under their breaths and imitate whoever’s on stage. She’s aware of the dirty looks some teachers (Ushimaru and Inui especially) send their way, but Futaba ignores it. What are they going to do, expel them? It’s pathetic how the teachers keep trying to control their behaviour until the last possible second. 

She barely cares about the ceremony, anyway; Futaba finds it humourlessly laughable that a simple ceremony is the accumulation of her entire time at school. All the ugliness—the years spent locked in her room, the bullying, the times spent stressed over exams and her struggles to just _get through the day_ —packed up into something neat and tidy with a bow tied over it. Kind of like a shitty game hidden in pretty packaging. She sees no reason to pay attention to any of it. 

Another speech is given, and then a second, and then the ceremony ends and they’re fucking _free_. 

Futaba bids Sumire a quick farewell before she speeds to find her family. Ren and Sojiro wait for her on the outskirts of the gathered and boisterous families, beneath a cluster of sakura trees. There are several flowers in Sojiro’s hair, some on Ren’s suit, a million others flying around them. Futaba slows just long enough to snap a picture (hey, Ren looks like he’s just stepped out of a shoujo manga, it’s perfect blackmail material) before she tackles him head-first into a hug. 

Ren grunts and staggers back (hmm, he’s not as fit as he was when they were running around Palaces every other day—she should inform Makoto and Ryuji about that), but still manages to catch her. “You did it,” he says, squeezing her, “I knew you would.”

“Well, _duh_!” Futaba exclaims, shoving his side as much as she’s able. “It’s _me_ we’re talking about here! I’m too awesome _not_ to have graduated.”

“Let him breathe, Futaba,” Sojiro laughs. He sounds suspiciously choked up. 

Futaba jumps on him next, wrapping her arms as far around his body and she can manage and squeezing him tightly, burying her head in his chest. She holds him tighter than she did Ren, her embrace far less playful. She breathes deeply when Sojiro holds her in return.

Words are still a code she can’t quite crack, so she tries to convey everything through her actions. Sojiro doesn’t say anything but tightens his hold, rubbing her back. 

Futaba instantly knows that he understands. 

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispers, gruffly. He’s trying so hard to hold himself together, but it’s a wasted effort—she’d caught him having a moment after Ren’s graduation. She knows how emotional these moments make him, even if he tries to hide it under a tough exterior. 

And aw, hell, emotions must be contagious, because Futaba feels herself catching all the symptoms: choked-up throat, stinging eyes, and lungs thick with something heavier than air. She swallows and breathes out, the simple action awfully shaky.

“Thank you,” she whispers, the words oddly strangled, “For everything.”

“I’d do it all again,” he says.

Futaba nods. 

She knows that, and knew it before he ever told her.

Futaba loses track of the time she spends in her dad’s arms, but eventually the embrace is suffocating, restaining. She pushes herself away and turns her back, wiping the incriminating liquid from her eyes. Ren places a hand on her shoulder. 

“The others are coming tomorrow to celebrate,” he says. “I think Haru’s got something… extravagant planned.” 

Bless Ren (and wow, that’s a statement as rare as golden SSR units)—the conversation is a lifeline, something that doesn’t require emotions to get through. Futaba sniffs and raises an eyebrow. “More, less, or as extravagant as renting out Destinyland?”

“I _think_ she was hinting at more.” 

“Haru-senpai rented out the _entirety_ of _Destinyland_?”

Sumire may as well be trying out for opera, considering how high-pitched her voice is. She’s frozen still, otherwise, her eyes and lips widened into big, slack, round _O_ s. Futaba snickers, the last remnants of her teariness gone. Sumire looks like a surprised strawberry.

A _cute_ surprised strawberry. 

“Oh, it was awesome,” Futaba exclaims, slipping her arm into Sumire’s. “We got floppy ears and had the entire park to ourselves, so no queues! And we got to eat food while watching the fireworks. Haru would’ve gotten the staff to put on a parade for us, but it was too short notice and they couldn’t get the numbers for it.” She laughs at how progressively _more shocked_ Sumire looks the longer she goes on. “It’s probably for the best that you weren't there, actually, considering what happened afterwards, but hey! This just means that I gotta take you to Destinyland sometime in the future!”

Sumire nods slowly. “Right,” she says, obviously still processing it. “Would it be an ordinary date, of a celebrity-status date?”

“Celebrity status, _duh_!” Futaba exclaims. She playfully slaps Sumire’s arm. “You practically _are_ one, and _I’m_ the original Medjed. Not to mention the lack of crowds! Zero lines! Just us and whatever rides we want to go on!” She beams, clapping her hands together.

Sumire’s eyes widen, but she still doesn’t look convinced. “We won’t be able to afford it.”

“ _We_ won’t, but Haru can,” Futaba says with a dismissive wave of her arm. “Or I can dig up some money from sleazy corrupt business owners and put it to much better use.”

Behind her, Sojiro coughs in a very pointed, _I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that but I still want you to know that I disapprove_ manner. Sumire giggles. “Well, one way or another, it’s a date!”

 _A date_.

If not for the fact that she’d send Sumire down with her, Futaba would let her knees fold underneath her and send her crashing to the ground.

“I look forward to it,” she says. Head spinning. Chest bursting. 

(She doesn’t need eyes in the back of her head to know that Ren and Sojiro are sending her knowing looks—her navi instincts are all but pinging off the walls.)

“Great! And speaking of dates…” Sumire nudges her side. “We’re still getting yakisoba today, right?”

“Who do you think I _am_?” Futaba demands, hoping that the slight crack in her voice is small enough to go unnoticed (Ren has, unfortunately; she can tell by that smirk on his face, the one as sharp as his knives). “Even my _clone_ would know that I live for yakisoba.”

“Remember to save room for that sushi,” Sojiro warns. Futaba shrugs his concern off; it’s a secondary matter compared to Sumire’s bright, excited smile and her own fluttering heart.

“I’ll keep an eye on her, Boss,” Sumire promises. She squeezes Futaba’s arm. “I’ll say my goodbyes to my parents and meet you at the gates, Futaba!”

With a final smile she darts off, red hair bouncing behind her. Futaba watches her leave, eyes on her until she disappears amongst the throng of families—and even then, she stands on tiptoe and tries to catch one last glimpse.

Ren grins. He leans down to her ear, conspiratorial grin on his face. “Go steal her heart,” he whispers, winking.

Futaba rolls her eyes. “Hey, I’m not the senior phantom thief for nothing!” she says, putting her hands on her hips. “I _got_ this.” 

* * *

Futaba shoves her bowl away and leans back in her seat, groaning and willing more space to _somehow_ appear in her belly. “Man, that yakisoba was so fucking _good_.” She slaps her stomach and instantly regrets it. “I won’t be able to eat any sushi tonight but it’s going to have been _worth it_.”

Sumire grins. “I know right?” she hums, licking sauce off her lip. “It’s irresistible.”

“I’ll say,” Futaba says, her eyes bulging at the more-than-several bowls surrounding Sumire and her still-upright, perfect-posture position. “How does your stomach _hold_ all of that?”

Sumire tilts her head to the side. “It digests it?”

Her expression doesn’t waver in the slightest as she says it. Futaba tosses her head back and _cackles_. 

“God, Sumi,” she says between breaths, “You’re so funny.” 

Sumire laughs—a sound as fleeting and playful as a child’s made-up song—and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “Not many people say that about me. It was always Kasumi who was the funny one.”

Sumire stills. She looks down, starts playing with her chopsticks against the bowl. Futaba swallows and starts tapping her fingers against her leg, at a loss of what exactly to say. Not sure if she _should_ say anything. Sometimes, she’s learned, it’s best to wait until the other person is ready.

“I can’t believe I’m graduating without her,” Sumire murmurs. “We talked about it—we bought ice cream after junior high. Double scoop in a sugar cone, with sprinkles on top. We were going to buy even more after we graduated high school. But, of course, that didn’t happen.” She looks up, plasters a smile on her face. “But I’m glad we had the yakisoba today,” she says, squeezing Futaba’s leg. “Yakisoba tastes _so_ much better than ice cream.” 

She tugs at her skirt and clenches her fists, even as she smiles.

Her smile is like a traced painting: a perfect replica, but without any of the heart or soul of the original. A copy. An imitation. A lie. And not just to Futaba—she sounds like she’s lying to herself, too. 

Futaba should know. She’d lied to herself for years, after all. 

Futaba stares at Sumire for a second longer before she jumps (or rather, _topples_ ) off of her chair. 

“Come on,” she says, regaining her balance. “Let’s go.”

Sumire blinks. “Where?”

“Ice cream.”

Sumire looks away. “Futaba, that’s really not necessary—” 

“Oh _no_ ,” Futaba declares loudly. “I have been hit with the burn status ailment and the only _possible_ cure is ice cream!” She grabs Sumire’s hand and tugs. “Come _on_ , Sumi.” 

Fortunately, it only takes five minutes to find the nearest store, and it looks fairly decent if the neon photographs and the reasonably-sized line are anything to judge by. Sumire hangs back as Futaba orders on her behalf (double-scoop double-chocolate ice cream with coffee-flavoured sauce), nabbing a simple bubblegum soft serve with sprinkles for herself. She presents it to Sumire, beaming. “C’mon, c’mon, eat it before it melts!”

It’s a fairly cool spring day so there’s little chance of that happening, but _still_. Ice cream is best enjoyed if eaten straight away, and Futaba won’t hear otherwise. 

Sumire takes the cone in two hands, holding it like it’s fragile, and nibbles at the top like a baby rabbit. Her eyes light up. “That’s delicious.” 

“ _See_?” Futaba quips. She pounds herself on the chest. “My decisions are always right!” 

That gains a small giggle out of Sumire. Futaba grins, congratulates herself inwardly, and guides Sumire to a reasonably secluded ledge and scrambles on top of it. Sumire takes her seat beside her, as graceful and distant as gentle moonlit waves lapping at the shore. 

“I didn’t celebrate my junior high graduation,” Futaba admits quietly, once they’re comfortable and out of earshot of anyone else. She kicks her legs out, the choppy version to Sumire’s forlorn waves, and has a bite of ice cream. It tastes exactly the same as the one she used to share with her mum. “I refused to leave my room that day. So this… the yakisoba, the ice cream, being with you for the ceremony… I dunno. It’s nice.” 

She busies herself with her ice cream. Sumire laughs humourlessly. 

“It’s not all good memories, is it?” she muses, smiling sadly.

Futaba shakes her head. “Nope. Sometimes you just get stuck with the bad end, no matter how hard you try.” 

The words are heavy on her tongue. Futaba eats more of her ice cream, as though the sweetness will do anything to fix that, sporadically flicking her eyes in Sumire’s direction. The air around them is thick: Futaba can feel something building, like a poem desperate to be heard. Something she can’t ignore. 

She straightens, lowers her ice cream, and turns to Sumire.

“Sumi—”

“‘Taba—”

They meet each other’s eyes at the same time, like planets drawn into each other’s orbits. Futaba snickers and taps Sumire’s ankle with her own. “You go first.”

Sumire chuckles, tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “Thank you,” she says, holding Futaba’s gaze. Futaba wills herself not to look away; she can sense how serious this is, how sincere, and how it will impact Sumire negatively if she was to look away. “For the ice cream. For being with me now, despite my earlier mood. And just—for everything. Seriously.” Sumire places her free hand over Futaba’s own and leans in. “ _You_ made this year for me, Futaba. These past two years, actually, and three if you count our Metaverse explorations. You mean a lot to me. I hope you know that. And I hope you know that I’m _really_ happy that I get to celebrate graduation with you today.” Her cheeks are tinged pink, as sweet and innocent as sakura petals. “I couldn’t be happier.” 

Futaba hangs her head. 

“You are _such_ a sap,” she groans. “ _How_ am I supposed to top _that_?”

Sumire covers her mouth with her hand, whether to hide giggle or a smirk Futaba can’t tell—but she’s willing to bet her Featherman figures that it’s a smirk. And she doesn’t bet her Featherman figures on things she even _thinks_ she can lose. “You don’t have to; I just said whatever came to mind! It’s embarrassing, honestly.” 

“No! It wasn’t! It was nice to hear.” Futaba clears her throat. “And I also want to say thank you, for all your support this year. You’ve been a real one. It’s far less eloquent than what you say but hey, the sentiment’s the same!” 

Sumire chuckles before cutting herself off mid-laugh. Futaba watches her visibly swallow. “I’d like to make another good memory today, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Her voice is oddly strained, and she isn’t quite able to meet Futaba’s eyes. Futaba leans forward. “Oh yeah? What do you have in mind?”

Sumire takes a deep breath. Slowly, she turns toward Futaba, and places her free hand on Futaba’s cheek. Futaba becomes a frozen computer: she can barely function, her brain working overtime to process the fact that Sumire’s fingers are brushing close to her lips, that Sumire is _staring_ at her lips, that they’re so close that the air crackles with sparks from their proximity. 

“Is this okay?” Sumire asks.

She leans closer even as she says it. Futaba’s ready to throw her arms in the air.

“Yes! Ugh, enough build up!” she exclaims. “Just kiss me already!” 

Sumire blinks, then dissolves into laughter.

“That’s exactly like you, Futaba,” she says, and kisses her. 

* * *

Ren’s leaning on Leblanc’s counter when Futaba returns, dazed and with a skirt completely stained by dropped, forgotten rainbow ice cream. Sumire’s lips had tasted like chocolate and coffee, though, and had more than made up for that slight disappointment.

“So?” he asks, leaning forward. “How’d it go?”

His voice is awful and teasing but, for once, Futaba doesn’t have the heart to care. She doesn’t think she _can_ be bothered by anything at the moment. She grins, giving him a thumbs up. 

“Mission complete. Heist successful.” 

**Author's Note:**

> this is a bajillion years late (uni, i'm glaring at you), but i'm still going to finish the last of my sumitaba week prompts because a) the completionist/perfectionist in me would be bothered if i didn't, and b) i love my daughters too much to NOT create content for them. i don't know when day 7 will be out, but i have an outline and hopefully i can juggle assignments and work with writing to get it out at a reasonable time!
> 
> my [twitter](https://twitter.com/agicelestines)!


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